


Of Booze and Thoughts (and Maybe Paul McCartney)

by The Key To Imagine (whiskeywit)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 13:37:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10438863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeywit/pseuds/The%20Key%20To%20Imagine
Summary: Title: Of Booze and Thoughts (and Maybe Paul McCartney)Rating: 15Word Count: 1292A/N: The UST-fic of the fic meme vs. poll I did a while ago. I've been working on the Maxwell fic as well (I keep forgetting about it and it's starting to become epically long, even though I hardly ever post an entry anymore) because I certainly intend on finishing it. It just... takes a while.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Backup of old fic originally posted to the Beatles community JohnheartPaul, currently residing on key_to_imagine. Summary contains the header as is on the LJ post.
> 
> Originally posted 27 DECEMBER 2009

Of Booze and Thoughts (and Maybe Paul McCartney)  
  
  
John awoke, with Paul in the other bed. He sighed.  
  
It was hardly the first time he sighed over this. After all, it wasn't exactly uncommon for them to sleep in separate beds. In fact, he could probably count the times where they slept in the same bed on one hand. It wasn't the first time John wished this to be different either.  
  
His head was pounding with every heartbeat, a steady sound in his ears that made him want to hide under the dark blankets again. The headache was intense enough to render him blind for the first seconds after he sat up, and the alcoholic drinks made his stomach turn around in a nasty way that made the contents try to crawl up through his throat. John swallowed a couple of times, forcing the drinks down again and tried to get his tongue feel a bit more like a part of himself again, rather than a dead animal sitting in his mouth. The taste was still foul enough to make him feel sick again, but he couldn't bring himself to get out of bed and brush his teeth or have a shower. There was another hour left before the four Beatles were expected downstairs, in the lobby, and he could – alright, couldn't do without a shower but he would forsake anything if only he could stay in bed a little longer. A quick splash of water in his face would have to be enough for today. Also, his head. John moaned when a particularly bright beam of sun fell onto his face, and he quickly turned around in the bed, trying to get away from the enemy.  
  
He sighed into the pillow, trying to recall last nights' events. John remembered deciding booze was really a great way to forget about his problems – a returning thought of these past years – and he should have known that at first it would make him more frustrated since booze made everybody who was looking good look better in tenfold. Atop of that, everybody who was normally ugly was now – not quite as ugly anymore.  
  
Paul was the only exception on this rule; he did not look ten times as good but a lot more (John had more than once mistaken him for a girl, too).  
  
John had gotten past the point of being pleasantly high on the alcohol, but staring at Paul had done nothing to improve his mood, or the speed at which he was throwing back his whiskeys. His mate and fellow-Beatle had been flirting with a pretty girl who had rather long curly blond hair with brown eyes, with a healthy blush on her cheeks. She was very well-shaped, her curves perfect, and looked interested in Paul in a very, say - adult manner. Paul's eyes caught John's at some point, but even though he'd been hoping for that, John looked away quickly and threw back another glass of whiskey since – yeah, the burn in his throat distracted him from the heat in his groin.  
  
After a while Paul had left, with the girl, and John ignored the thoughts, the images of Paul fucking the blonde, found in a seedy bar, in god-knew-which city they were visiting at the moment.  
  
John had left a long time later, during which the first bar closed down and had to tell him to leave. He had then gone on a stroll through the city, drunkenly bumping into several passer-bys who looked at him strangely. John recognized the looks, although he could not quite pinpoint why they were looking at him like this; the lust-fuelled look in his eyes, love-crazy or whatever the people might be able to see. And it could as well have been because he was a Beatle, and Beatles were not supposed to be out in the streets at that time of the day- no, night, certainly not in the state he was in.  
  
He'd ducked into the nearest pub, to get even more drunk – drinking and drinking for what seemed like minutes while it must have been much longer. From here on, John's memories started to show more and more gaps of black, a void where memories should be – memories he couldn't recall because of his intoxicated state. He vaguely remembered there were things he'd done that were beyond his own limits, but there was no way he could know what they were.  
  
After the bar closed, at last, and John had managed to make out with a couple of different girls (he thought they were all girls at least, but he couldn't be a hundred percent sure – never – because he wasn't wearing his glasses and drunkenness made it also a lot harder to tell different genders apart. They were all equally beautiful anyway, even though he would only admit to this after the same amount of alcohol consumed the night before). He could barely stand straight on his legs, and decided it was probably time to return to the hotel, so he could fully collapse into a drunken stupor and not awake until the next morning.   
  
God only knew how he'd gotten back at the hotel at all, since all John remembered from his way back was laying in the gutter, looking up and trying to see the stars. He hadn't been able to. Then he'd just started hoping, imagining falling stars in his head and wishing for the girl to have left the hotel already. This was mostly since it was easier to come true than getting that spare place next to Paul in bed, the John really quite longed for. Secretly, anyway.   
  
Then he was back at the hotel, in a flash after the gutter and more black, walls his hands had collided with since his knuckles were now raw, caked with crusted blood.  
  
He remembered turning the key in the lock, opening the door and walking into the room. The memory of closing the door behind him was gone – or perhaps he had forgotten to. He'd stumbled towards the nearest bed from where he was standing, and it had turned out to be a grave mistake. Paul had taken the girl to the hotel and she was laying next to him, the both of them peacefully asleep. She had woken up the moment John fell atop of the two sleeping bodies, and had started shrieking – rolling out of bed before Paul had a chance to say anything. He'd proceeded to glare at John angrily, while the girl got dressed at a speed that left hardly no time for John to catch as much as a glimpse of her naked flesh. Though, even if he'd gotten an eyeful, it probably wouldn't have interested him because he was laying atop of Paul, with the bulge in his trousers still present.   
  
It didn't last long, because the moment the girl rushed out of the door, Paul pushed John off the bed and turned around annoyedly. His body language clearly showed he did not want to talk to John now, and John stumbled to his own bed. He didn't bother undressing because he was too tired and drunk, but apparently he did manage to open his trousers and stuff his hand inside. His trousers weren't ruined though, so obviously he hadn't succeeded in getting himself off.  
  
Paul came out of the shower, and John quickly took his hand away from where it still was, feeling his face heat up. Paul only raised his eyebrow, and then shook his head.  
  
“You should go for a shower,” he told John, and John did so. He'd do anything Paul told him to, in the hope his wish might once come true.  
  
  
~Le Fin


End file.
